I think I used to write. Perhaps I still do. I'm on the case. The poem below is really about how I read other people's poems - when they are good.
The poet sets a trap Baited with practically nothing You will enter with a swagger of incomprehension. The deeper you walk in, in innocence, Invited, the more incapable you will be of leaving. It’s a fine spring, hair-trigger trap. You blundered in with no idea. The lid falls quietly, the spring creaks Like a swaying tree. And there you are hanging by your leg Swinging, Screaming at your shadow in the snow.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
Viewed 70 times since 07 Nov 2017
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